by Lone Theils
‘It can’t have been very pleasant for her to see her only son accused of such dreadful crimes,’ Nora interjected.
‘Hah!’ Edna snorted contemptuously. ‘She never admitted that there was the slightest thing wrong with her darling William. Oh no. The police had made a mistake. A miscarriage of justice. She has been blind to the evil staring her straight in the face her whole life and will defend him until the bitter end,’ she said, slamming her palm on to the table to emphasise her words. ‘He was a bad lad.’
Nora looked encouragingly at her hostess over the rim of her teacup.
‘I didn’t know him when he was a boy, but my neighbour, Mrs Ponds, taught at the school where he went, and she said that even when he was a little lad in shorts, you could tell he was pure evil. She caught him several times wringing the necks of pigeons behind the school. And once when his class held one of those bring-your-pet-to-school days, a little girl came back from break and found her rabbit dead in its cage. They said he’d done it.’ Edna shook her head.
‘What happened to Vanessa Hickley?’ Nora asked, holding her breath.
‘She moved to Spain, I believe.’
Nora could feel her new lead crumble in her hands, before Edna interrupted herself. ‘Yes, Costa Brava. My cousin James saw her down there some years later. She was working in a nail salon and called herself Vanessa Holmes.’
‘OK?’
‘It didn’t last, of course. I hear she lost all her money, and so she came back home. She had nowhere else to go except the old family home in Farthington.
Nora nearly knocked her teacup off the table. ‘Are you telling me that Bill Hickley's mother is back living in Farthington?’
‘Yes. She lives in that big, dark grey house on the hill. The one with the green shutters. You can’t miss it. It's the most run-down house for miles. The children are scared of her. They think she's some kind of witch, and they dare each other to climb the wall to her orchard and go apple-scrumping in the autumn. In the old days, she would chase after them with a stick, and she would hit them if she got the chance. But it's been years since she could last run after a child. She's in a wheelchair now and her carer pushes her around. They breed dogs. I think that's how she makes a living. There's a terrible racket from the dogs up there.’
‘So she's not in a care home?’
Edna shook her head again. ‘Not as far as I know. The time might well have come for her to go to Cedar Residence. She's the right age, but somehow she can afford a live-in carer, so if she's got someone, I don’t really see why she would want to ...’ she wondered out loud.
Nora interrupted her train of thought. ‘What about Hix's sister — doesn’t she look after their mother?’
‘Sister? William never had any brothers or sisters,’ Edna stated firmly.
‘Are you sure?’
‘William's father hanged himself when the boy was four years old. Vanessa never married again, nor did she have any more children. I swear on a stack of bibles. She had a completely unhealthy obsession with William.’
Nora nodded. She wondered if she should call Foxy and her Tetris-playing colleague on Monday and get a better description of the woman who was allowed to visit Hix with family privileges. Was she the go-between for Hix and his groupie? She could always try, but whether she would get a useful answer was another matter.
It might be better to get Spencer to do it. Should she call him with an update? She decided it could wait until the morning and started the lengthy process of saying goodnight to Edna, who was talking as if she had been stranded alone on a desert island for thirty years.
Finally Nora had to resort to yawning discreetly.
‘Ah. And here I am keeping you up. I think I had better show you to your room.’
Edna unhooked a large, golden key from a board behind the reception counter and ushered Nora down a long corridor with a dark red carpet and copper etchings on the wall. Nora feared the worst, but when her hostess opened the door, she saw an enchanting and bright room with a sea view and the window ajar, and she could smell sea salt and wild roses.
Edna closed the door behind her. Nora located the remote control for the TV and selected the first news channel she could find. Not because she really wanted to see the latest prices from the New York Stock Exchange or hear a breathless reporter talk about Beijing smog. It was more the familiar soundscape that assured her she wasn’t completely alone in the world in a strange hotel room.
She went to the bathroom, which was everything she had hoped it would be. Chequerboard tiles and a big, old-fashioned lion foot tub.
The tap squeaked and groaned, but eventually hot water poured out in a steamy cascade. She adjusted it with some cold. On her bed she found two soft white towels and absent-mindedly started to undress as the bath tub slowly filled.
As a child, she had rarely been allowed a bath. Hardly ever in fact. Christian Sand was of the opinion that a bath was wasteful, and that humanity in general was better off with morning swims and cold showers. It was still a deep-seated belief in her that a bath was a luxurious indulgence you must make use of whenever you found yourself in a hotel room with a bath tub.
First she dipped her toe and let the hot water almost scald it before, little by little, she lowered herself into the water until she lay with her feet on the tap, ready to add more hot water as soon as her body had adjusted to the temperature. The water enveloped her, and she let her head slip under the surface while she held her breath and tried to imagine that she was in the sea, snorkelling around a coral reef.
She sensed rather than heard the sound. The noise of her mobile penetrated the water and made her sit up with a jolt.
As she tried edging her way out of the tub, she slipped and banged her elbow against the rim. The pain almost made her fall back into the water. She grabbed one of the towels on her way out to dry her hands while she struggled to remember where she had left her mobile. Her jacket pocket!
Just as she reached it, it rang for the last time. She checked the display. All it said was unknown number. It could be the Crayfish calling from home. He had been given an ex-directory number after a couple of unfortunate incidents with readers of strong views, who didn’t understand why Globalt wouldn’t publish their letters or support their particular pet cause — or who simply believed it was acceptable to turn up at the Crayfish's home to discuss in detail the extent to which he had got his analysis of Israel's foreign policy completely wrong.
Irritated, she chucked the mobile on to the bed and was heading back to the bathroom when a small beep indicated a text message had arrived. ‘You have one new voicemail message,’ it said.
She entered the pin code and heard first a deep intake of breath, then Andreas's voice: ‘Nora, Goddamn you! I’m not letting you do this. Not again.’
Pause. ‘Nora. If you’re near your phone, please pick up.’
Another pause. ‘OK. You’re not going to pick up your phone.’
He sounded weird. Sad. And then suddenly: ‘Oh, fuck it, Sand. I’m not going to have a conversation with your voicemail. Get your shit together and call me! You should have let me finish when we last spoke. I’m calling from my Uncle Svend's. For some reason I can’t get through on my own mobile. Just pick up the phone. How old are you? Fifteen?’
She chucked the phone on to the bed again, went to the bathroom and submerged herself in the water. It had grown cold by now and no matter how much more hot water she added, she just couldn’t get the temperature right.
In the end she gave up, washed her hair, wrapped herself in one towel, twisted the other around her hair and curled up on the bed.
What did he mean when he said that he wouldn’t let her ‘do this again’?
She turned up the volume on the television and channel-hopped to find another news channel, but it soon became clear that the Seahorse Hotel hadn’t spent its budget on a sophisticated TV package. BBC2 was repeating a garden programme, while BBCI was halfway through a studio discussion about the NH
S. She finally found a news bulletin on ITV, but the moment she selected it, they switched to the sports update.
She was starting to feel tired and had almost nodded off when her mobile rang again.
It was Trine who had managed to get her kids to bed and sent Johannes off to the petrol station to buy wine. Nora told her the heart-breaking news about PC Perfect and the imminent marriage. ‘Then again, white was never really my colour.’
‘Nora, for God's sake. You’re upset! So give in to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I’m saying. You’re really upset. Allow yourself to feel it. Don’t do what you did last time.’
‘Don’t you start that last time business as well. What's your point?’
‘Don’t you remember how you went into complete lockdown after Hanne's party?’
‘I went into lockdown? No way, it was Andreas who —’
‘Nora. You wouldn’t even talk to him.’
‘The way I remember it —’
‘You went Interrailing two days later without even saying goodbye to him. Then you came back with that guy from Florence, Tommasino or whatever his name was. And you were really pissed off that Andreas wasn’t at the station waving a flag when you rocked up weeks later with an Italian boyfriend in tow, when you hadn’t sent him as much as a postcard.’
Nora blushed when she realised that Trine was right. It wasn’t Andreas who had cut her off.
‘Nora, you have to learn from this and move on. Andreas is gone — but the next time try being a little more —’
She could feel herself tuning out. Like a kid pressing its eyes shut and stuffing its fingers in their ears, chanting nah nah nah nah nah. This conversation was the last thing she needed. She said goodbye to Trine and wondered if she had the energy to get dressed and go looking for a corner shop selling cheap wine. But eventually she just pulled the blanket over her head, closed her eyes, and the next moment she was fast asleep.
30
Breakfast was served in a basement where the only natural light came from a couple of narrow windows just below the ceiling. Nora gave the buffet with the wrinkled grilled sausages, watery mushrooms and rubbery scrambled eggs a wide berth, and asked for poached eggs instead. They were served on toast with margarine, which she tried scraping off, before taking a sip of what claimed to be orange juice, but which had only the colour in common with the fruit.
She had helped herself to a copy of The Sunday Times from a selection of newspapers at reception and she flicked absent-mindedly through it. She came across an interview with an author and, out of habit, tore out the page and put it in her pocket. It might be an idea to ask her arts editor if she would be interested in a similar feature. The business pages announced new banking mergers, and the weather forecast promised rain later that evening. None of the papers had mentioned Hix's escape from prison.
She returned to her room and charged her mobile, while she turned on her computer to check her emails.
There was a single email from the Crayfish asking her to call him Monday morning before the editorial meeting. To be on the safe side she also checked her Hotmail account, but found only junk mail, invitations to press briefings and a message from David, attaching a file with three photographs of lush, pink peonies in bloom. She replied with a smiley. She didn’t have the energy to write a proper reply, something he of all people would understand.
Her signal showed a single, unstable bar. Nora presumed this worked both ways, and was pleased that at least she wouldn’t be bothered by calls from the Crayfish, Andreas, or an over-anxious Spencer.
It took her only minutes to pack. She had never been one for putting her clothes on hangers or in drawers when staying in hotels. You never knew when you might have to make a quick exit. All she had to do was put her toothbrush in her toiletries bag, chuck it into the sports bag with her clothes and zip it up before she went back to reception, ready to settle her bill.
‘So, where next?’ Edna said with a wink. ‘Any murders that need solving before lunch?’
Nora shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. My job isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. This morning I’m paying a visit to a care home, and then I’m having lunch with an OAP at The Three Mermaids.’
Edna launched into a lengthy explanation of how the pub's owner had squandered most of his fortune and the pub's reputation due to his unfortunate urge to gamble on horses. ‘Then again, he's half-Irish,’ she said in a tone of voice that more than hinted it explained everything.
However, he had found true love in the form of Bessie, who came all the way from Yorkshire and during a short and incredibly passionate summer holiday, she had taken on, not only the broken half-Irishman, but also the pub's kitchen and worked to make it one of the best places in the area to eat.
‘Try their Yorkshire pudding. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life, no matter what you eat afterwards,’ Edna encouraged her.
Nora promised, picked up her bag, and walked outside to the yellow rental car. The moment she turned the key in the ignition, the radio blasted her at full volume. She had forgotten to turn it off last night, and now Adele's crisp, pain-marbled voice cut through the small car with assurances that she would definitely find a man just as good as the one she had lost to someone else. ‘Someone Like You.’
She turned it off resolutely and entered ‘Cedar Residence’ into the satnav. It was a ten-minute drive. Enough time to switch stations and she ended up listening to an enthusiastic report from a local rugby match.
She parked outside a Ladbrokes betting shop in the high street. Nora saw no need to alert the dragon from last time before she even stepped inside the building. If she arrived on foot, she would look like a local and she might be able to slip unnoticed through the main entrance.
While she was pondering her next move, her mobile rang. She took it out of her pocket and heaved a sigh. Spencer.
‘Miss Sand. I’m very close to swearing. You really must learn to answer your phone,’ he said, by way of an angry introduction.
Before Nora had time to respond, he went on: ‘I must ask you to go straight to Waybridge police station and ask DC Summers for protection. She has been briefed. I can’t imagine what you’re doing right now, running around as if nothing had happened. It's completely inappropriate.’
‘Yes, but I’ve already tried her ... And I don’t believe there's any danger that —’
‘Listen. I’m astonished, to put it mildly, that you didn’t see the news this morning, and conclude that you ought to get yourself to a place of safety ASAP. It's possible that Hix has already killed again. A woman's body was found near Dorchester. We haven’t released any details yet, but there's a lot to suggest that it might be Hix. Waybridge is much too close for it to be safe for you to run around on your own.’
‘Yes, but I thought he was wanted across the UK? He's probably trying to leave the country as we speak. And how on earth would he know where I am?’ Nora asked when she had composed herself a little.
‘Miss Sand. Are you willing to run that risk? I’m not. We don’t know where he is. And until we do, you need protection. It's not up for debate.’
Nora considered his point for a moment. ‘OK. I see what you mean. I’ll make my way to Waybridge police station,’ she then promised him.
‘Good. I’ll expect to hear from Summers that you’re safely with her in the next thirty minutes. Goodbye,’ he said.
‘There's just one little thing I need to do first,’ she mumbled.
But Spencer had already hung up.
After a five-minute walk, she reached the gloomy building that had been given a name more suited to a mansion in the American Deep South with columns at the front and a view of the swamp. A more appropriate name would be: Last Stop. Final Destination or The Scrapheap.
The main entrance was locked and a code was needed to enter. Nora muttered curses under her breath, then after a quick think pressed one-two-three-four. She heard a small click. It was c
ommon in places like this, where staff, visitors and relatives needed to come and go quickly. A code so simple that everyone could remember it was probably of little use, except to assure people that management did indeed care about the safety of the elderly residents.
Nora slipped inside. The reception was unmanned, but she could hear noises from a back room, which indicated that the staff were having their morning tea break. She could hear the clatter of cups and teaspoons, and there was a faint smell of cigarettes being smoked through an open window.
She marched purposefully past the counter. It was one of the first lessons she had learned about entering places where people normally threw journalists out before you had time to say ‘I’m from —’ The trick was always to look as if you had business there, and that that business was a duty to be carried out as quickly as possible.
She turned right down a long, dark and narrow corridor with numbered doors on either side. The thought of having to check possibly forty rooms, spread across several corridors before she found Mr Thompson, filled her with dismay.
Near the end of the corridor, she could see an open door and hear mumbling and clattering cutlery. She swiftly made her way there and crossed her fingers that she wouldn’t bump into the dragon from last time.
An elderly woman was sitting alone in front of the window, pushing a spoon back and forth in a bowl of porridge. The bowl was almost empty, and Nora could see immediately that the woman was blind. The voices were coming from an old-fashioned tape recorder, where someone was reading aloud Pride and Prejudice and was in the middle of Elizabeth Bennett's travails with her younger sister's escapades.
‘George? Is that you?’ the woman said, sensing instantly that there was someone in the doorway.
Nora cleared her throat. ‘No. It's not George. Do you know where I can —’
‘But where is George? He promised to visit me today. I know he did, because today is Wednesday,’ the woman said. She sounded upset.
‘Maybe George is on his way?’ Nora ventured in an attempt to calm her down before she became agitated. And indeed her suggestion made the woman sink into a kind of inner calm. ‘I’m looking for Mr Thompson.’